Page 18 - Just Deserts

The Decimator

by his boss and started the tape rolling in a VCR mounted below the
screen.
“This first scene is from ‘Decimator II: Lady Luck’s Revenge.’
Keller’s droning voice was drowned out by the booming basso of
Crag Sunderbar issuing from several large speakers around the room.
“Now, ma’am, I think you’ll find that it’s safe to go out on the
streets again,” said the screen Sunderbar. “Those crooks won’t be out
of prison until the twenty-second century.” He stood at the threshold
of the front door of a modest frame house, facing an attractive but
evidently distressed young woman. Upon hearing his words, her face
melted into an expression of ecstatic adoration. “Oh, Rod,” she
murmured, as he tipped his hat and turned to leave. “I don’t know
how to thank you.” The image faded and Cyril Keller paused the
tape.
“Okay, that’s all we need; just those few seconds. There you’re
being heroic, gallant and sexy all at the same time. You’ve busted all
the criminals, and you can have the babe if you want her—not
because you’re aggressively trying to get her, but as a natural
consequence of the protective powers you’ve displayed. So, on a
conscious level: savior of feminine purity; unconsciously: effortless
seduction. The militant women’s rights kooks can’t fault it, and our
target group—latent rapists all, let’s face it—get a double dose of
heavy empathy. The plan, by the way, is for each of these excerpts to
be followed by some apple pie-and-motherhood scenes with a voice-
over telling the people they can trust you. Nothing negative about
your opponent except by implication. He will have to start fighting
dirty if and when he gets desperate; you can take the gloves off then
and really go after him. But these first five commercials are going to
make the biggest impression.”
Keller started the tape again. Crag Sunderbar immediately
recognized a climactic scene from ‘Decimator IV: Siege of Terror.’
Crowds of people were running in panic down the hallway of a
public building, probably a government office. Against the tide strode
Rod Deal, a grim smile on his lips. He quickly entered a door marked
‘Maintenance’; inside the tiny room he was confronted by an
ominous gun-metal gray box on a cart. The Decimator ripped open
the lid and the picture cut to an electronic timer surrounded by a
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